


Hallelujah

by Aloice



Series: Final Fantasy XIII: the H&L-FWWCH Universe [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIII Series
Genre: Character Study, F/M, FWWCH universe and spoilers, Gen, Hope POV, Music/Skating Inspired Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 07:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13782762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloice/pseuds/Aloice
Summary: In the new world, Light shines, but Hope is the baffled king composing Hallelujah.FWWCH verse with modifications, written to Patrick Chan's LP in the 17-18 season.





	Hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

> In case you couldn't already tell, Hope/Lightning as a ship slays me all day every day for both the good and the bad reasons
> 
> Might be difficult to understand without the necessary FWWCH context, but perhaps still a (sadder) spiritual parallel of (my previous fic) Faith.

Sometimes, when he closes his eyes and gently erases the world of its color, slows down those miraculous small intakes of breath to wrap his fingers gingerly around the softness and smooth of snowmelt-colored bed sheets, he thinks to himself:

_If this world is so beautiful, why does it still hurt so much?_

 

Small things: fragrant and savory family recipes clung onto with all the faith and desperation of a fourteen-year-old child losing his mother too young, the shapes and seeds of favorite fruits and vegetables recalled stubbornly by a mind on the verge of unceremonious collapse, a full night of twinkling stars wrestled from a God who found the idea of other worlds contemptible and meaningless. It makes him shiver sometimes, the weight of the idea, the truth buried under porcelain pale skin that yes, he knows everything, he has been the co-architect of this universe and he’ll remember where he’s placed every tree and fleeing squirrel if he can remember, _wants_ to remember. The world is like a stream of water he’s let gradually flow out of a shower pipe, transparent and so vital to life, soothing as it caresses his neck, his face.

He wonders if he’s going to drown in his own sweat and tears.

 

Hesitation has made him fall behind; while the others without their doubts have more than expanded the meaning of  _carpe diem_ , constructing metropolises and examining fiber optic cables while composing countless arias and poems, he’s been content to sit back, watching the glowing faces of children returning home from school every afternoon and trying not to look away from the dark hunchbacks of the homeless that roam the streets. There are earthquakes on TV. A war breaking out in another country on the other side of the world. He still has another twenty critical response papers to grade. Did anything really change?

 _You’ve grown tired and afraid_ , her voice (it’s always her voice) whispers from that beautiful labyrinth in his head he’s locked her in, and he squints one eye as he stands up to make another cup of tea. He’s alone in the house. The floor barely creaks as he makes his way through the room.

It’s on the fourth beat of the music that she speaks again, too sympathetic to be real:  _She doesn’t talk like me, does she?_

He pretends he doesn’t hear or listen. Light will be coming home in a little more than an hour, and he needs to shower, clean the rooms, pick up groceries if he still has time left over. She’s shown a new fondness for small snacks, not to say two of the dishes he’s been experimenting with. If he can get that expression out of her again - that sincere delight despite herself - perhaps he’ll be able to stop dwelling on the things that she doesn’t say, the things she hasn’t been quite interested enough in to listen to - 

_You never knew her, you know. The only one you’ve ever known was me._

Having set the tea aside – he’s suddenly lost interest – he takes off his shoes and steps into the bathroom, stares hard at the face reflected in the mirror. Familiar eyes. Familiar wonder. A hard pinch to the cheeks. The skin goes red and warm, then hurts steadily, the flushness spreading across his face. Shower, cleaning, groceries. The day is the seventeenth of February. There are twenty-four hours in a day instead of twenty-six. He’s not losing his mind again, or at least he doesn’t think he is.

_Everything will be okay, Hope._

_It’s not okay_ , the man in the mirror whispers back with the dead eyes and sincere smile of a fourteen-year-old heartless and broken thing from the Ark,  _it’s not okay because you are still here._

_Be honest with yourself, Hope. Isn’t this exactly what you want?_

 

 

> **Well, I heard there was a secret chord**  
>  **That David played and it pleased the Lord**  
>  **But you don’t really care for music, do you?**

When did he put this song on loop?

Speaking of that - why has he been visiting the chapel on that small hill overlooking the social science quadrangle every evening just before he leaves to pick Light up?

 _It’s a case of sin and redemption_ , he murmurs subconsciously to himself, then laughs at the words his heart has chosen, the imagery and connotations. He will get over this. He knows better than this. He loves the way Light would lounge out on his balcony during the weekends, fresh out of the shower and scrolling through fashion magazines –

_You are not God, Hope Estheim._

_All the Gods you’ve ever known have been incredibly lonely._

 

“You are telling me,” Snow’s voice comes through incredulous from the other end, and he can almost picture the bigger man leaning against a rugged doorframe in slightly tipsy – but awfully earnest – disbelief, “you haven’t told her anything?”

Hearing it spelled out so clearly is supposed to hurt – he’s prepared for it – but the dull ache behind his ribs is strangely dead, as picturesque and eerily still as something newly buried, the disturbed earth still fragrant. “She’s adjusted well. She seems to be enjoying living here with me. I’m happy, too – why would I ruin it?”

“ _Hope_.” There’s an urgent tone now, equal parts disturbed and exasperated. “That’s not how you conduct a relationship – both of you really need to understand, it’s what Serah and I have been trying to do, I know it’s hard –”

“We’re not together, Snow.”

“What? Now that’s just a lie, that last time –”

“I won’t let us be together,” he says, and lets the words drop in their finality, sink in for him as well as the only other person who even ever had an inkling. Everything freefalls and touches the ground like rain. It’s better that way. “And it’s looking that way, anyway –”

“The fuck are you talking about, Hope? She’s just dense – she’ll realize her feelings eventually, her and Serah –”

He’s imagined being completely honest before – he has nearly been once, alone in that office with Aoede, yet perhaps a habit to lie is too difficult to break, and he doesn’t want her to think badly of him, just as he doesn’t want this brother on the other side of the line to think any less of him, to be more disappointed than he already is. _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m too afraid and too selfish._ “Things… happened after I was gone, between her, and me, and Bhunivelze.” _And things happened before I was gone_. “You’ll trust my judgment, won’t you, Snow?”

The silence from the other end is agonizing. He counts time with the cars passing through the streets, the oblivious working and vacationing families, employees on their jobs, novice drivers trying to pass exams. The world is orderly without a Director and a Patron. Their breaths resonate through this signal line to the end of time. “I’ve always trusted you. You know that.” A pause, then a mimicry of the same tone. “But you’ll let me know how it goes, won’t you, Hope?”

“Stop that.” And he’s laughing despite himself and he’s running despite himself and there’s an ocean with sailboats and seashells at the end of the trail and he’ll hold himself together, be way too fond of the man who took his mother away a thousand years ago in a world that only survives in memory. It’s not Snow’s fault that his parents are no longer around, anyway. That tragedy he has only himself to blame.

 

 

> **The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift  
>  The baffled king composing Hallelujah**

She still cries out, sometimes: a muffled thing or two into the pillow, a few battle cries, choice words she has for irrational customers and venomous coworkers. He listens in the midnight warmth effusing through the rooms and decides she’s well settled, rooted. If she knows the full implications of what has happened between them during those thirteen days, her heart isn’t torn up over it.

_It probably hurt a lot less than the prospect of losing Serah all over again, anyway._

He imagines the scene as it once was, the two of them under the covers, her hand warm in his as he wraps his arms around her and calls to her, a few repeated floating sounds that again and again affirm her as his. The only thing the two of them probably have in common is probably the callouses on their hands, and maybe, just maybe, the knuckles - 

The familiar sense of shame wells up like a spring flower blossom and he rolls over, gasping haphazardly as he re-checks his clock and turns his mind away from memory and sentiment. There are still a few hours before dawn. It’ll be her turn to make breakfast, and if he remembers correctly, there are still a half dozen eggs in the fridge. Has she done her laundry yet? Perhaps he’d need to remind her. And there’s still that idea of the rose garden. The person he’s called to consult will be coming later in the afternoon - 

 _Spend a night with me, Hope_ , she interrupts his train of thought, seemingly materializing exactly where she once had been, and he folds his arms.

_No._

_You’re not going to last long enough to see her through if you don’t give your mind some release_ , she laughs, just as cruel as every iteration of her, and he hates how she knows him and cares about him, in all the ways that the real woman sleeping in the adjacent room probably never will. Since the end – since he’s finally found Lumina – there’s been a similar, almost childish mocking fringe in this Light’s voice, too, and it’s outrageous, unforgivable, heinous –

 _I can leave, you know._ What she’s proposing is unthinkable, unbearable. He wants to walk headfirst into the chaos just contemplating it.

 _And see this world fall into ruin? To give up hope that you can reach some kind of peace with her? You are too greedy for a happy ending, you know. I told you all those years ago that I couldn’t give you hope. You have too much of it yourself._ She climbs onto him lithely, effortlessly puts his arms aside. Everything that is happening is wrong.  _What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her_. Another all-too knowing chuckle.  _Has the stuff she knows even hurt her?_

 _It’ll be the end of you if you do this_ , he fights, picturing the invitation to Serah and Snow’s wedding in his mind, that lovely piece of stationery. He must be there, with them. Be someone worthy enough to stand with them. Be true and good - 

 

 

> **But remember when I moved in you**  
>  **And the holy dove was moving too**  
>  **And every breath we drew was Hallelujah**

She sings the lyrics and he slowly arches back, bites back the scream that has woken him up to start this whole sequence of madness. The phantom lightly peels away the layer of material covering his face, kisses exposed trembling lips. Nearly two hundred years disappear in a flash.

 _You don’t have to hide anything from me_ , she murmurs, and the volume of her words reverberate through his skull, filling him up with a wistfulness and desire so sweet he wants to choke.  _I want to know everything about you._

 _Give me distance, then. Be real. Leave._  There’s a real pleading edge in his voice and he clenches his teeth at how it all sounds, at the warmness of her breath on his skin, the earnestness he craves but will never get.  _If you truly love me, you’d give me a real chance._

 _Who says I’m not? Lightning Farron has always kept you together. I am only doing the same thing now. I’m yours, Hope. Never God’s. Or do you need to be reminded of that as well?_ She scoffs and he feels something give way within him, a kind of faith dissolving into the air. It won’t be the first time his faith loses out to truth. He knows it won’t be the last.  _Stay with me, Hope._

 _I love you_ , he mumbles, towards the silence and reality of that whitewashed wall.

 _Now that’s the first honest thing you’ve said all night_ , she deadpans, before leaning down for another searching kiss on burning lips. There are tears on his face. Can he even get rid of all the marks before breakfast? A tone shift. The only thing he’s ever wanted to hear. _I love you, too._

The world crumbles like yesterday.

 

 

 **Maybe there's a God above**  
**But all I've ever learned from love**  
**Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya**  
**And it's not a cry that you hear at night**  
**It's not somebody who's seen the light**  
**It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah**

God arrives in His entire glory: the auras and lights, His divine love, handsome face draped in the adoration of mortals and the shower of radiance from the stars. For God has always been destined to reach this time, even if the existence of a mortal was required as an anchor, and that same mortal now hangs mangled and limp from what can only resemble something like a crucifix, the only thing said mortal could have imagined to fit his degree of misery.

“I don’t presume that you remember what you have done?”

God’s voice is mighty yet just a trace uneasy. The mortal looks up with blank blind eyes and laughs into the night.

“Come on. Take it. What are you waiting for?”

God is a crafter. A vanquisher. So God once again puts His hands on what used to be his vessel, removes more impurities. And by impurities we speak of all of existence, for God has long deemed the vessel unworthy, a threat that He will no longer allow to keep heart and memory. No more heartless souls and soulless hearts breaking divine thrones or failing to deliver.

The injury drives deep and the mortal cries out softly, the light in those dead irises growing dimmer yet lingering as another fragment falls, yet another half-heart and part-dream about to be thrown away into the void, left to wander without knowing itself or the horrors it has dedicated itself to, the bleeding of this new world borne by its loving architect. Yet the mortal laughs again – wistfully, desperately, an almost-struggle to follow the trajectory of the fall of his heart and memory – as the fragment falls through the seams of the sky, and a tear hangs from his cheek like a meteor.

“I have just cut away your love. What do you have left now to fight against me?”

“Oh,” the mortal murmurs, face raised and glowing in prayer. “But that was what you used to break me in the first place.”

**FIN.**


End file.
